Chapter One

For many humans, there is something desirable about the idea of immortality. The world has much to offer – there are so many things to do and places to see. People make bucket lists of things to do before they die that they are likely to never complete. No matter the age or reason, death is sudden and unexpected, and there is no way to plan for it, to ensure that you experience everything that you want in life before it comes to an end. For that reason, there is something exquisite about the idea of living forever. To have all the time in the world to travel and sightsee, to go to concerts and shows, and to spend years doing nothing productive without feeling as though you're wasting your life away is an impossible ideal, a beautiful dream.

What humans don't know is that immortality is so unbearably dull.

Even in his thirty-three years of being human, Sherlock Holmes had learnt how painfully boring the world could be. From time to time, there would be something to make him feel alive – a gruesome murder to investigate, bodies torn to shreds by not animals but men. There were often experiments to be had, chemicals to be combined, and tests to be run. Yet sometimes, sometimes there was nothing; there was no reason to go outside, nor attempt to interact with any single being. Sometimes, there was boredom, the sort that seeps into your brain and spreads through your body, leaving you with neither the strength nor the motivation to push yourself up onto your feet. Some days, no matter how hard you try, no matter how many distractions you seek, there is a boredom that cannot be relieved.

Then, in the winter of 1887, the blood was drained from Sherlock's body and replaced with the blood of a vampire. Of course, there was the initial fascination, the enthrallment of inhumane strength and enhanced senses, and the blood, sweeter than any substance he had ever injected into his veins. Eventually, however, there came the sort of boredom that could last an eternity. After existing for over a century, with the knowledge that that amount of time could be only a fraction of the total amount that he would spend on this earth, existence began to seem pointless, immortality overrated. There is only so much joy and excitement in a world that, though constantly developing, never seems to change. Technology improves, medical research lengthens the human lifespan, and yet, the world continues to turn, people are born and people die, and everything begins to seem monotonous. It feels as though the past is repeating itself over and over, but no human lives long enough to notice. After spending so long on this earth, it's so easy to become lethargic, to fail to see the point in anything at all.

Occasionally, there is relief. Occasionally, there is a mystery to solve, an adventure to be had. There is something strange, something exciting, to hold his attention for days, maybe even weeks, but in the end, the feeling is lost, and the boredom seeps in once again.

Yet sometimes, very, very rarely, there is something unusual, something new. Sometimes, there is a reason to feel alive, to feel grateful to be here for this experience, and sometimes, this reason comes in the most unexpected of forms.

OoO

Whether lying on the sofa or walking through the streets, no matter how distracted he may seem to be by the thoughts inside his head, Sherlock Holmes was always aware of the goings on around him. Even in boredom, he could never turn his brain off; if he passed a human in the streets he would be deducing them - their relationship status, career, intentions. If he entered a room, he would be conscious of anything that had changed since he had last been there, anything that was out of place. With each of his senses enhanced, it was easy for him to observe and deduce, to notice things that most humans would miss.

So, naturally, when there was an unusual smell in the air one afternoon, it took him only a fraction of a second to notice, and scarcely more than that to identify it: werewolf.

It certainly would not be the first werewolf that Sherlock had come across during his existence – the vampire had to move around often to avoid drawing attention to the fact that he was not ageing, and some of the places he had visited were heavily populated with the creatures. These places were ones he would not spend very long in, if he could help it. Werewolves were territorial creatures, and they would not respond well to the smell of a creature that could kill them with one bite, as they could do to him. No supernatural creatures got along, but vampires and werewolves posed such a risk to one another's existence that they could be considered biological enemies, and there were very few parts of the world where they happily coexist.

This particular werewolf, however, would be the first that Sherlock had the unfortunate chance of meeting in London. Being a large, busy city with plenty of hospitals and blood banks (or even willing donors), and with the days often being overcast, London certainly was not a bad choice of home for a vampire. The scent of the undead all through the city was usually enough to drive away any werewolf who did consider moving in, and even without this, it would not be popular amongst werewolves. Whilst vampires preferred busy cities, werewolves were known to occupy the quieter locations, places where they were less likely to be seen, where there was less risk of them coming across too many unsuspecting humans. Werewolves preferred locations with forests or woods, not with bright lights and tall towers. It didn't make sense, why this werewolf would therefore be in London, and so it was only natural that this unusual werewolf would catch Sherlock's attention.

He scanned the park quickly, and it only took him a moment to locate where the scent was coming from. The werewolf was in human form – unsurprising, given the time of the day and the general desire of all supernatural creatures to not end up the test subject of scientific experiments. He was a military man, judging by his haircut and the way he held himself, and the cane and limp suggested he was wounded in battle. He walked as if he knew the place, but Sherlock had never noticed him or his scent before – he must have lived here years ago and returned here only very recently, likely after being invalidated home. That would explain why he was in London, despite it being vampire territory. It was likely that he had been bitten when he was abroad, and he would have returned to his previous home of London because he didn't know any better.

All this was deduced in a mere couple of seconds, but these observations were overshadowed by the far more pressing one – the werewolf was walking towards him.

Sherlock stiffened imperceptibly, doing his best not to stare. He pursed his lips shut, feeling his fangs lengthening inside his mouth, preparing for a confrontation. The instinctual reaction would be to either fight or flee, before the werewolf had the chance to harm him, and Sherlock knew his scent would set off the same instincts in the wolf. Sherlock had the sort of self-control needed to avoid this sort of brawl in the middle of the park, but werewolves were far more primitive, far more likely to act on these instincts.

The park was filled with humans, and even idiots would notice if the man walking towards Sherlock suddenly shifted into the form of a wolf, just as they would notice if Sherlock opened his mouth and exposed unnaturally sharp teeth. If they fought, exposure of both their species was at risk, and yet Sherlock knew from experience that werewolves could, and would attack anyway, responding to instinct rather than logical thought. Sherlock considered running, turning on his heels and escaping before a confrontation occurred, but if he could smell the wolf, the wolf could smell him, and running would only result in a chase.

There were no more than five steps in between him and the werewolf; there was no way he could get away in time.

Four steps; his fangs pressed against the inside of his lips.

Three steps; his body prepared to block an attack, to duck and move the moment the werewolf lunged.

Two steps; the werewolf wrinkled his nose and looked around.

One step; their eyes met, and Sherlock prepared to move.

Zero.

The werewolf shifted his gaze from Sherlock's eyes (the contact had been so brief, with a human he would have assumed that they had not seen him at all) to face ahead; he passed Sherlock and -

- kept walking without a word, leaving Sherlock frowning behind him.

That was unusual.

Sherlock looked over his shoulder quickly, body still stiff and ready to move, in case this werewolf was intelligent enough to have planned out a course of action and was prepared to attack from behind. However, the werewolf was still walking, without looking back. His heart rate sounded accelerated, more so than it should have been for a man taking a walk through the park at that pace, but otherwise, he didn't seem to have noticed Sherlock at all. His body was showing none of the initial signs of shifting – his hair wasn't lengthening and his body wasn't beginning to contort and shift. To a human walking by, there would be nothing abnormal about the man with the cane, and that was precisely why this situation was not normal in the slightest.

Sherlock watched as the man continued to walk, putting more and more distance in between them. It didn't make any sense. Sherlock had never met a werewolf with that much self-control, with the ability to pass a vampire without batting an eyelid. The creature should have shifted, lunged at his throat; at very least he should have shown signs suggesting that he was putting in the effort to control himself, consciously suppressing the instinctual urge to kill. Yet there he was, going about his day as if nothing unusual had occurred at all.

This was the only werewolf in London, as far as Sherlock was concerned, and the only werewolf he had met who had not lunged at Sherlock's throat upon catching his scent.

This werewolf was unusual, in more ways than one, and perhaps something this unusual was worth investigating.